


Ready

by Lafman



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Denial, Even if it doesn't look like it, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grieving, He'll be okay don't worry, Just one robot corpse tho!, Lots of other characters who don't make physical appearances, Paperwork, Politics, Procrastinating, Suffering, The character death is only canon in the Almanac, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 14:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafman/pseuds/Lafman
Summary: Sentinel Magnus receives some grim news, but he's not going to let that affect his performance as ruler of the Autobots. Always look forward. Always.Right?





	Ready

**Author's Note:**

> A much more recent work of mine that I'm quite proud of!  
> There were a couple of weeks in which I went crazy analysing Sentinel's character beyond "HE'S A JERK" and this is the result.  
> ! I'm on board with the "Cybertronians can check their comm. messages & stuff in their head" headcanon !  
> Enjoy!

**RUTHLESS**

"When?"

"Last night, sir."

"Doctor's words?"

"Yes, sir. Here's the autopsy report."

"Keep it."

The clerk blinked and then put the datapad back into his chest pocket.

"The husk will be removed from hospital and secured in 480 cycles, until... well, whenever it's decided that-"

"Yes."

Silence.

"Sorry about your loss."

"If that'll be all then you're dismissed."

Only after the door had closed with a _click!_ did Sentinel reluctantly turn away from the massive window that made up an entire wall of the Magnus Office. There, beyond the crystaluminium, lay a gleefully oblivious Cybertron buzzing with the pursuit of small pleasures. On this side (his side) there were calls to make, meetings to attend and bots that he could not in a million vorns hope to please.

Yippie-ka-slagging-yay.

  


**PARANOID**

"Sentinel Pri-Magnus, sir, why should we be learning these 'servo-to-servo' things when we can just fight in fly?" Jetstorm protested as he recovered from a vicious suplex. Sentinel blocked Jetfire's kick and hurled him against his twin, making them both fall in a heap on the training room floor.

"Not when there's a crowd of bystanders that are bound to get caught up in one of your giant elemental blast things," he explained very eloquently.

"Bystanders in a battlefield?"

"Bystanders," Sentinel said, "in a revolt."

  


**SCANDALOUS**

"Item 175, on the topic of jetpack distribution. Jetpack sales have skyrocketed, no pun intended, following Optimus Prime's return, as have accidents related to the improper use of said devices."

The sea of fragile-looking desk bots that comprised the Senate murmured amongst themselves and then, one by one, proposed solutions: making mod shops state-regulated, pushing the introduction of jetpack insurance in insurance companies and all sorts of excruciatingly humdrum nonsense. Sentinel waited for everyone to look at him, a sure sign that it was his turn to speak, and leaned down to reach the tiny microphone perched atop his desk.

"Ban them," he said. The change in all the faces around him was immediate.

"Sir, don't you think that's a bit of an extreme measure?”

"Not to mention eerily similar to certain recent policies..."

"And the people will relate it to your ongoing rivalry with Optimus Prime."

"Not any more extreme than... wait, WHAT did you just say?" He turned to the general direction where the last comment had come from.

"Your notorious vorns-old one-up competition against Prime?" said a dinky fembot with yellow lipcoat. Sentinel cleared his vox.

"There is no such 'rivalry' between Optimus and I. That would imply that we're equals."

"Well, you were until very recently."

"WE'RE NOT RIVALS!"

"Alright, alright, let's get back to the matter at hand, shall... we?..." pleaded a lone bot, the one who read the items, but he went unheard in the ensuing uproar.

  


**UNFIT**

The Hammer, for all of its symbolism, was an awful weapon. Its overly heavy head put a ridiculous amount of strain on Sentinel's wrist and elbow joints, which he did *not* need locking up at the wrong time.

He swung it forward, backward, side to side and every time he felt like he was flinging a sack of lead shavings. He missed his lance, which would cut through the air instead of awkwardly _wading_ through it. The only good thing about the Hammer was its storm generator, but even that had a nerve-racking element of randomness.

So, yes, awful weapon. Or perhaps just an awful user.

  


**WEAK**

  
`INBOX`  
  
`10 Missed calls from OPTIMUS`  
`1 Missed calls from JAZZ`  
`1 Missed calls from CLIFFJPER`  
`8 unread messages from CLIFFJPER`  
`1 unread messages from QT (attachment)`  
`1 unread messages from NEWYEWINC`  
`2 unread messages from BOTANICA`  
  
`5 unread HIGH CMMD memos`  
`4 unread ELT GUARD memos`  


Sentinel stared at the inside of his own optic lids and the exact problems he was trying to run away from stared back. He knew he should be memorizing the speech that the very appropiately named Quicktype had sent him, but he couldn't bring himself to even open the document.

He felt the mild feeling of discomfort that had been ailing him all day long reach its sickening apex and could no longer stay in the prison that was Fortress Maximus. 'Bots tried to stop him, but he just walked faster until he reached the transformation lot and sped to the only place where he could hope to find answers: Iacon Central Hospital.

  


**READY**

"Sir, it's almost time for removal."

Sentinel glared at the guard, daring him to deny the Magnus of Cybertron. Without another word, the imposing figure stepped aside and unlocked the morgue's door.

It was dim inside. He ambled carefully, afraid to disturb the deathly quiet, and sure enough, right at the centre of the room, was him.

It.

His left arm had been seamlessly reattached, but his chest was untouched. Now unobstructed by the SS machine, one gash revealed the inside of his spark casing.

Pitch black.

Sentinel barked an unhappy laugh. What exactly had he expected? And worst of all, he knew the answer to that question. He had expected a recovery, even if short. He had expected to finally have a conversation of more than five words with the legendary hero of the Autobots. He had also expected a proper handover, proof that he was where he was because of his achievements and not a series of chaotic events that he had absolutely no control over.

But of course not. That would've been _fair_ ; it would've made _sense_.

Sentinel was tired of thinking. He dropped on a conveniently placed chair and basked in the emptiness that had replaced his day-long apprehension. Then he gave the dead grey husk another look-over and took one of its dead grey servos between his and whispered very, very quietly:

"I'm not ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...did you like that. did it make you feel emotions.  
>  All criticism welcome!  
> (Wow, I'm getting the hang of this formatting stuff)


End file.
